I'm Not Moving
by Sunflowerrei
Summary: Guy and Girl go their separate ways. But the music always leads them back to thoughts of each other.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the movie _Once_ or the musical _Once_ or any of the songs written by The Script, clearly. This is purely for entertainment purposes, based on an idea that my friend and I riffed out while cutting through the crowd in Times Square after seeing _Once_ the musical.

Part One

All of his belongings fit into one backpack. That, and his beat up guitar case, was all the guy took with him to New York.

His girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, girlfriend again?—lived in a fourth floor walkup in a place called Woodside.

"It's not very big," she said, waving her arm around the biggest room, which the guy could walk across in five steps. She walked forward, bumping into him. "Whoa! Um, well, kitchen there. Bathroom there. Bedroom there. Not much to it."

He nodded, taking in her bare surroundings. "It'll do, right?"

She nodded.

"So," they said at the same time, sitting on her tiny, tiny couch. She said, "I'm really glad you're here. I have friends from work and stuff, but it's kind of lonely here."

"How's work, then?"

She shrugged. "It's work. It's a busy shop. The customers couldn't understand me at first, but I'm getting better. You still got that old thing?" She pointed to the guitar case. "Same guitar? It hasn't cracked?"

"It's got some wear and tear. But it's a clear sound. Worked on Grafton Street." He unzipped a pocket on the case and pulled out the demo. "Made this, with help from me mates. Demo. You wanna have a listen?"

She nodded, holding her hands out for the CD. She put it on her old CD player and pressed play. There were a half-dozen songs on there. The Guy watched anxiously as she listened. Surely she must know that those songs were written about her, in his anguish, anger and frustration.

"That's a grand tune," she commented after "Falling Slowly." She reacted to each song, closing her eyes when he hit a particular run, mouthing the lyrics on the last chorus on another song, nodding along to the beat of "When Your Mind's Made Up." The last song was the one the girl wrote the lyrics for—she insisted it be called "If You Want Me" after _he_ insisted they record it. He now knew that she wrote the words for her husband. Was he already in Dublin? Were they getting along? Did she like the piano?

"Oh, whose this?" His girlfriend asked, hearing the girl's voice singing.

"A mate," he finally replied.

# # #

Every morning, the girl woke up, checked on Ivanka, brushed her teeth, made a cup of tea (her husband complained that she was taking on the Irish obsession with tea), and played scales at the upright piano.

There was barely any space in the living room for it, but she burst with pride everytime she saw it. At the start of the day, she played for a few minutes—Mendelssohn, maybe. When she returned from a long day of trying to sell flowers in Dublin city center, she made another cup of tea and with Ivanka on her lap, played silly songs—childhood songs she remembered, lullabies and nursery rhymes.

In the evening, she played his songs. At night, when she slept, melodies and chords swam through her head. She heard a simple tune swell into a chorus. She heard lots of drums. She heard his voice. His voice was, as the Irish said, lovely.

But as much as she played, she never wrote a lyric or a note down. She tried, but the others would start arguing about Suzanne off _Fair City_. Or her husband would stand next to her and talk about something—about his day at the immigration office or the English classes he took twice a week at nightschool or, a week later, about his day at the unemployment office. For all that he and she were getting along at the moment, they couldn't afford to have him not work. As soon as he was able to find a job, she urged him to.

The only job he might be able to get was being the janitor at the local primary school, because there, at least, he wouldn't have to know much English.

"Then take it," she told him one night after he interruped her. "Take the job. It's not forever."

"But a _janitor_?"

She inhaled. "But at least it's a job, isn't it?"

He sighed.

One night, as she was playing "Falling Slowly," though her mind was somewhere else, he said: "But you never told me where the piano came from."

She hit a sour note. "Billy's shop, of course. I introduced you to him last week, remember?"

"That big bearded man? Yes. But _how_ did it get here? This is a new piano."

"A mate got it for me," she replied, in English. Her husband's English was still poor. Ivanka, at two years old, had more English than he did. Switching back to Czech, she said, "We played music together. I helped him record a demonstration CD. This was a thank-you present."

"Very expensive."

Her conscience was clear on this count. Nothing had happened between her and the guy, after all. She had made sure of it. She continued playing, but switched to a safer song.

"Oh!" One of the lads called from near the TV. "That song is deadly! I love U2."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Obviously don't own _Once_ the musical or _Once_ the movie and I don't claim to.

**Part Two**

"So are how things then?" The guy asked into the phone, leaning against the small desk in the tiny main room.

"Oh, they're grand," Da replied, voice crackling over the line. "Shop's doing well."

"And Barushka?"

"Grand."

"Well, grand," the guy said. They fell silent for a few beats. "I've been playing gigs here and there. Open mics and such." He didn't mention that the last gig had been at a snooty coffee shop in Brooklyn, where the other musicians played endless pseudo-folk music. It was open mic night and so, he'd not earned money. He wasn't sure when the next gig would be.

"Ah. And how is herself then?" Da asked.

"She's well. Working long hours, you know. Holiday season. Comes home cross."

"Getting on, you two?"

"We are," the guy said, tapping his fingers. "Wrote some new songs. Sent copies of the demo out to managers and record labels. We'll see what comes of it."

"Aye. Oh! I saw your girl the other day."

"And how is she doing?" The guy asked with real interest.

"Strong as ever. Showed me her new piano. Lovely. The baby's getting big, too."

"I'm sure. She can't be selling flowers on Grafton Street in this season."

"Ah, no. Billy gave her a job in his shop."

"Oh! Well, that's grand!" That was grand, bloody great. Surely Billy paid her more than selling flowers on the street and she would be surrounded by music. Plus, the girl could sell just about anything. She was better than some club promoters the guy had come across in his time.

He and Da hung up not long after. The guy returned to his guitar and his girlfriend's computer. He opened up a webpage and smiled a little.

_Falling Slowly_-252 listens

_Leave_-252 listens

_When Your Mind's Made Up_-175 listens

_Gold-_-150 listens

Least someone was listening. When the weather was still nice, he set up with his guitar case on street corners and in parks. Made a decent amount, more than he had in Grafton Street. The tourists threw money in his case because they thought they _had_ to. Women gave him their change from Starbucks because they heard his accent. Americans thought the accent was "cute," so he used it to his advantage whenever he could.

The accent was how he got the job at Crumbs Bakery last month, for starters. His manager claimed that it was "charming." His bartending job was more easily come by—and also because of his accent, though in a different sense. The pub was downton and it was the kind of the wood-paneled, dark, whiskey-serving place he remembered from Ireland. The customers were mostly Irish immigrants like him.

He shut the computer down and shuffled through some papers, scraps of chords and notes and lyrics scrawled across each of them. There was one that had some promise when he worked on it yesterday.

_Once, once_

_Knew how to talk to you_

_Once, once_

_But not anymore_

He heard the door unlock then swing open.

"Hi, love," he said.

The door closed. He looked up from the paper and saw his girlfriend pull off her puffy winter coat and throw it on the chair. She toed her shoes off, grimacing.

"Tough night?"

She pulled off her silly woolen hat, her brown hair stuck straight up with static, and shook her head. "You don't even know. I had this bitch of a customer. Jesus! It's not my bloody fault that she forgot her store credit card, is it? She just went off. Fuckin' eejit."

"Did you eat? There's Chinese takeaway left over."

She shrugged, sinking onto the couch. "I'm more tired than hungry. I thought you were working tonight."

"This morning at Crumbs. Tomorrow at the pub."

"Oh." She let out a yawn.

"Talked to Da. He says everything is grand."

"I haven't talked to my Mam in a bit," she said. "I miss Ireland. It's all hard graft here."

"It's hard in Dublin, too."

"I know. But it's home. Came here to get some adventure, to be independent."

"Away from me."

"Away from what I'd done," she corrected him. "I ought to get to bed. My shift starts at nine forty-five tomorrow morning." She peeled herself off the couch and into the bedroom.

# # #

"It has a beautiful sound when played," the girl said to a choosy customer. "It's not a Fender, I know, but it's better than that! Less expensive! Same sound! Good for you, no?"

The customer eventually agreed with her and bought the guitar. Billy, standing in the corner, shook his head at her, smiling.

"You're a beast, my dear." The bell above the door chimed again. She turned to greet the customer and her vague smile turned into a real one because it was Eamon from the studio.

"Hi Billy!" Eamon said. "Oh! Hello!"

"Hello! How are you?"

"I'm well. I've got a session musician who needs guitar strings. Have you got any?"

Billy went to the wall and pulled off packages of guitar strings. Eamon took three packets. "Grand. Thanks. Hey," he said to the girl. "I might need a piano player for a session. Would you like to do something like that?"

She hesitated. She was quite good on the piano now, even better now that she had the piano at home. The recording session had been fun, but it was fun because she had engineered it. It was fun because she had picked up this busker, ready to throw his guitar and his life away, and they had made beautiful music together.

"It pays pretty well per hour per session," Eamon was saying. "Can you read music?"

"Yes."

"Good! Would you like to try it? Just every so often."

She had chided the guy, months ago now, for giving up on his music so easily. She practiced every day, in the shop and at home, but who heard her, besides her mother and child and flatmates? She was a damn good pianist and money on the side would only help.

So she accepted Eamon's offer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Once_.

**Chapter Three**

"I don't understand," his girlfriend said for the billionth time as they walked home from the elevated subway after one of his gigs. "Look, it's not that I don't support your music. I think you're wonderful. I don't know why you're hawking a CD you made full of songs about _me_."

"Because they're good songs!" He exclaimed. "One of the fellas there came up to me and told me he appreciated the passion and rawness behind 'em."

"Ugh. Passion and rawness don't pay the bills." "I pay the bloody bills!" He snapped. "Two jobs, the gigs and the busking…"

She shook her head. "It's not enough!"

"We are doing our best," he said, turning to see that the street was clear of traffic. He crossed over.

"You're not doing it right! How come no one's signed you? No scouts come to see you?"

"Oh, my God! You're blaming me because large corportations haven't taken notice of me? Are you daft?"

She threw her arms in the air. "Isn't that the point of a demo? Or am I getting it wrong again?"

"What is your problem?" He simply asked. "Jesus."

He led her down their quiet, dark block, his guitar case hanging on his shoulder.

"Aidan called," she finally said when they were three steps away from their building door.

"Oh. What did he want then?"

"A chat. He's in London now. Manages an art gallery."

He reached for his key, opened the door, held the door for her to step through. They began the trek up the four flights of stairs.

"Good for him."

"Don't be jealous."

"You criticize the way I'm going about my music—which you know is the most important thing in the world to me—and then you say that the bloke you cheated on me with has some smart job in London. No, no jealously here."

He unlocked the door to their tiny flat. She stomped off to the bathroom.

He slept on the couch that night.

# # #

Eamon introduced her to the other musicians—all quite scary-looking wannabe rock stars. She was given music to play on the keyboard. After a rehearsal, she felt she had it down. It was only a simple riff, not Mozart.

"Hey," she heard the lead guitarist say to the drummer, "you seen the last episode of _Fair City_? Isn't Suzanne completely mental?"

She smiled.

The session was some five hours long. At the end Eamon gave her her check for the session, which she carefully tucked into her purse.

When she walked into her flat, she heard shouting. She expected Svec and Andrei to be arguing with Reza over Suzanne's fate yet again or perhaps a football game. Instead she found her mother holding Ivanka and gesturing wildly while shouting at her husband.

"What's going on?" The girl cut in.

"Your husband had the nerve to take money from the can!"

The girl raised a hand to her forehead. "How much did he take from the can?"

"Enough!" Barushka said. "That money is for emergencies. In case someone gets sick or we need a doctor for Ivanka. And what did he take it for?"

"What did you take it for?"

Her husband threw his hands in the air.

"I'll tell you," her mother continued. "The pub!"

"Do you still have the money?" The girl asked.

"I earned some of it. It's not a big deal if I want to go to the pub and have a pint."

She may have taken on the Irish obsession with tea, but he had taken on the Irish obsession with the drink.

"I agree. Just don't take the money from the can," the girl ruled.

"I haven't got a bank card, have I? Can't just go to the ATM and take out cash!" He exclaimed.

"I am ignoring you now," Barushka said to him. The girl took Ivanka from her mother and carried her into the living room. "Also, I am going out tonight."

"Oh? With who?" The girl called out, sitting on the piano bench. Ivanka pressed on the keys.

"With the hoover man," Barushka said. The girl smiled in thought at the quiet, kind old man who now lived alone above the hoover shop. She resolved to visit him soon.

Her mother left a half-hour later. The girl was teaching Ivanka "Three Blind Mice" on the piano. Ivanka's chubby little fingers on the keys made the girl both laugh and tear up.

"What'll you do for dinner?" Her husband asked.

"I suppose we could warm up the stew from last night."

"I don't want that."

"Then go down to the chippie on the next street and bring two orders back while I give Ivanka a bath, please." Suddenly the vinegary taste of fish and chips seemed perfect.

"With what? You don't want me to spend money from the can, remember?" He went into their cramped bedroom and didn't come out for the rest of the night.

The next day, when the girl went to get her recording session check cashed, she didn't bring home the money. Instead, she bought Ivanka a new pair of shoes and used the remainder at the chippie for her lunch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Once _or The The Script song "The Man Who Can't Be Moved."

**Chapter Four**

The guy logged in to the website, his fingers tapping out the login information as deftly as they played his guitar.

The computer was secondhand, old and slow as hell, but it still worked and working at Best Buy the last four months had taught him how to program the bloody thing so he could make scratch recordings of his songs.

That first, magical demo CD was on the internet, on a website that sold independent music. Five people ordered his CD on its first day listed. That was two months ago. He was still unsigned, but with a better understanding of how to go about finding a following. He made short videos of himself singing and put them up on YouTube. He had a Facebook fan page. His EP, the demo CD, had just gotten on iTunes and he hoped that he would see some profit there.

His studio apartment was lonely, but at least it was quiet. His beat up guitar was his best friend. He and his ex argued constantly, as they had in Ireland. He was sad to find that his girlfriend who had seemed so in love with him and been enthralled by his songwriting and playing when they first began going out in secondary school turned out to be a person who was going in such a different direction.

So they broke up.

Now to craft new songs. He had four, so far: "Once," "Trying to Pull Myself Away," "Lies" and "All the Way Down." They were about his ex-girlfriend again. He'd eaten Ramen noodles for two weeks in order to save enough to have a two-hour session in a recording studio to finish the four songs. One more song would complete the EP.

His fingers strummed the guitar absently. He hit a riff he liked. Where could this one go? It sounded better if it started slower. He changed the key. That was better. It was a touch melancholy, which suited his empty flat and his existence at present.

He hummed the melody for the next three days. He was playing on the corner of 42nd Street when the words "Going back to the corner where I first saw you" flashed into his mind.

He strummed. _Going back to the corner where I first saw you/ Gonna camp in my sleeping bag, I'm not gonna move._

A young woman stopped in front of him. "That's really pretty."

He stopped playing the same riff over and over, remembering that he was on the street. This was not the place to figure out a song.

"Uh, thanks."

The young woman smiled. "You're Irish."

He grinned. "I am."

She nodded. "Is that from a song?"

"Not yet."

"You should totally write more," she said. Then she pulled a twenty from her wallet and dropped into his guitar case. "Well, have a nice day." She walked away.

# ##

The girl sat on the stairwell of her building, folding in on herself. There was an argument, a horrible loud fight that made Ivanka cry. She couldn't even remember what the fight was about anymore or how it started. But they said mean things to each other.

They hadn't been getting along recently. It was the same problem that always plagued them. They were just different. Once, they had been able to reconcile their differences. He had a lot of pride while she tried to make those around her happy. She was willing to work low-paying jobs, as long as she could provide for Ivanka. Beggars can't be choosers, the Irish said, and it was the truth. Her husband didn't understand her music.

They both changed while they were apart.

So the girl sat on the stairs and wept into her hands. They couldn't go on like this.

Reza came out of the flat and sat on the stairs beside her. Reza said, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Either stay with him and live like this or divorce him and let him go back."

The girl nodded. "Yeah. Reza, I don't know what to do."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Once _or The The Script song "The Man Who Can't Be Moved."

**Chapter Five **

The song was finished. The guy pressed a few keys on his computer and listened to the playback. This was a more restrained song that any of his past ones. It was less morose as well. The guy supposed he was moving on from his ex-girlfriend, which was good. But if he was moving on from her, what would he write about now?

_Going back to the corner where I first saw you_

_ Gonna camp in my sleeping bag, I'm not gonna move_

_ Got some words on cardboard, got your picture in my hand_

_ Saying, "If you see this girl, can you tell her where I am?"_

_ Some try to hand me money, but they don't understand_

_ I'm not broke, I'm just a broken-hearted man_

_ I know it makes no sense, but what else can I do?_

_ And how can I move on when I'm still in love with you?_

_ 'Cause if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me_

_ And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I can be_

_ Thinking maybe you'll come back here to the place that we meet_

_ And you'll see me waiting for you on the corner of street_

_ So I'm not moving_

_ I'm not moving_

The guy listened to the song all the way through. There were no other instruments except his voice and his guitar. It could use some drums and maybe another guitar or a bass or something, but even this plain acoustic version packed some power to it.

It only took him a few days after the first lyrics flashed into his mind to have it all worked out. It sounded poppier that his other songs.

But who was the song about? He wouldn't sleep out on a corner for his ex-girlfriend, not now. Maybe back in Dublin he would've.

The girl. Would he? After everything she'd done for him? Yes.

He was absolutely certain he would do something as outlandish as sleeping out in front of her building, if he could win her. But she had her husband and they were working things out and really, had there been anything there besides their shared passion for music?

There was. They exchanged stories and opened themselves up to the other. He liked her, was confused by her, charmed by her.

"A married woman? Really, mate?"

On an impulse, he surfed to Babelfish. What the hell was it that she said to him when they stood by the shore? He knew it was important by the way she said it, but he didn't understand Czech.

It sort of sounded like "miluju" something. What was the second word? Started with a "T."

He typed in the first word, unsure how to spell it. Several links were on the screen. He clicked on the first one. Czech phrases.

_Miluju Tebe_—I love you

"Shite."

He glanced at the clock, calculated the time difference. Da would still be up. He reached for the phone and called his father.

"Hey!" Reza called across the room. "Look!"

The girl came into the living room, holding Ivanka's hand. "What?"

Reza turned the volume up on the TV. The girl heard a familiar reporter's voice off RTE narrating.

"…The song went up in iTunes only three weeks ago and it has already filled the popularity bar. The poignant song was written and recorded independently by an Irish singer and he is surprised at just how popular the song is becoming…"

A man appeared on the screen. The girl gasped, nearly jumping.

Reza pointed to the TV and said, "Your Irish man!"

"Shhh!"

He was speaking: "I was in New York, writing songs, and only having a bit more success than I'd had back home. I was busking near Bryant Park when the first line of the song came into my head and it really wrote itself after that…"

"People seem to see it as a hopeful love or break up song, don't they?" The reporter asked.

"Yeah, they seem to," the guy replied. "It's a simple little song about a steadfast guy who waits for his love to come back and find him."

"There's plenty more where that came from, by the way. His two EPs are available on iTunes and and there is a full-length album in the works. For now, this talenter singer/songwriter is back home in Dublin after some time away."

"'I'm looking forward to being back home for a bit."

"Did you write this song for anybody in particular?"

"Em," the guy said, with a little half-smile. "No comment."

Reza jumped up. "You!"

The girl shook her head. "Me?"

"Yes, you. He wrote it for you."

"No, no," the girl protested. "It's probably for his girlfriend. Or for nobody. Songs fall out the sky sometimes."

"Oh, and sure," Reza replied in a very Irish tone. "But my God! Irish man on the telly!"

The girl grinned. "I know! I wonder if his Da knows!"

"Fair play to you, man," Eamon said to the guy. "You could've stayed in New York or gone to London to record an entire album."

"I wanted to be home, though," the guy replied. "You've got session players that can be a backing band, haven't ya?"

"Yeah. Your Czech friend is my session piano player. Bloody brilliant."

"She is? Oh, that'd be great. Haven't seen her since I left for New York."

With studio time assured, the guy went on the next step of his journey for the day. He was in front of Billy's store. He bought some guitar strings off Billy, who told him, "I saw you on the telly!"

"Not bad, eh?" The guy replied, paying for the strings. "When does she get in for work?"

"Who? Oh! 'Round about four."

He set up his guitar case with a card inside that said: _No money here, please._ Then he began to play "The Man Who Can't Be Moved," singing as loudly as he could manage. At first, the people ignored him. When he finished, then began singing a cover, a few people looked his way. He interspersed covers with his own songs for a while, then checked the time. Two to four. Where was she?

He started the introduction of "The Man Who Can't Be Moved" again, dragging it on for a few measures. A couple people stopped to look, curious. He heard one lady say to her friend, "I think I saw him on the telly today!"

"Going back to the corner where I first saw you/ Gonna camp in my sleeping bag, I'm not gonna move," he sang, keeping his eyes peeled for her. "Got some words on cardboard, got your picture in my hand/ Saying if you see this girl, can you tell her where I am?/ Some try to hand me honey, but they don't understand/ I'm not broke, I'm just a broken-hearted man/ I know it makes no sense…"

She was walking down the street. She was almost at the storefront. Bloody hell!

"But what else can I do?/ How can I move on when I'm still in love with you?" He stretched that out, adding a run or two. _Turn round. Turn round._ "'Cause if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me/ And you heart starts to wonder where on earth I can be/ Thinking maybe you'll come back to the place that we meet/ And you'll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street…"

She was nearly at Billy's door and she hadn't turned around. Was she listening to something? Did she not recognize his voice?

He put more power into "I'm not moving." Finally, she turned her head quickly in his direction.

She stopped, turned more fully. He kept singing, a silly grin coming across his face as the girl's jaw dropped.

The small crowd applauded when he finished. They dispersed after a few minutes, after he told them that he'd be playing in one of the tiny clubs nearby the next night.

She stayed in her place.

"Hello," he called.

She stormed forward, a hand digging in her pocket. She stopped and held out her hand.

"Here," she said. "Five euros."

"Keep your money," he told her. "Have dinner with me?"

"I—but I," she turned to look at the store. Billy stood in the doorway, both thumbs up. The girl turned back. "Then, yes." She cocked her head. "Maybe a little hanky-panky after?"

"Da said he went back."

"He did. We are divorced." She grinned. "I'm a divorcee."

"Scandalous." He returned the guitar to its case, closed it, and picked it up. "Let's go." He held out his hand and she took it and off they walked down Grafton Street to their own beat.


End file.
